June 20th

Sometime after the damned clock downstairs announced loudly that it was one in the morning, Hermione continued to stare at the ceiling above. She hadn't been able to sleep after her long bath. Her mind continued to race, going over the heated conversation she had with her husband hours earlier when she got home. When he came to bed, she pretended to be asleep to prevent a continuation of their discussion. Nothing made much sense in her mind. Rehashing it all over again seemed to be a pointless endeavor. Surely staring at the cracks in the plaster on the ceiling was a much better use of her time.

As she listened to the steady breathing coming from her husband's side of the bed, she remembered what he told her. There had been such vehemence coupled with such sorrow in his voice when he told her that he never hit her outside of the Dark Lord's orders. She knew how to tell if a person was lying, especially when that man was Antonin. They'd shared so much of their lives together. There was no one she'd been more intimate with, not even Augustus. She loved Augustus and a part of her knew that would never change. What she had with Antonin was different from every other relationship. Marriage, it seemed, wasn't just a piece of paper after all. They shared a connection that she'd never shared with anyone else. If he was lying, she would know about it. Besides, in the entire twenty years that he'd been an ever-present part of her existence, he never had a reason to lie.

The Dark Lord had many different methods to punish his followers when he felt they deserved it. One of his favorites, as a method to control both parties, was to insist that spouses conduct the harshest punishments against each other. Also a twisted test of loyalty, it showed who was more important: their spouse or their master. If it was even suggested that a husband or wife was going easy on their spouse in their punishments, they would be expected to receive double. Hermione could understand his reasoning. Even though they were required to propagate their magical bloodlines, Lord Voldemort wanted their ultimate loyalty to be to him, not to each other. Much easier to crush potential rebellions in that instance.

Countless times over the years she'd been cursed by Antonin for a perceived failure. Sometimes, the Dark Lord preferred that he utilize physical violence against his wife. She couldn't exactly blame Antonin for his part in her punishments. If he refused, he not only would be punished right along side her, but they would be at risk of being seen as potential enemies of the regime. They had a son to consider. He did as he was ordered while their master watched.

What she couldn't understand at all was why he would claim that he never hit her outside of their master's orders. She could remember him hurting her many times quite vividly. After the incident with the stairs, he didn't touch her for at least two years. His guilt over his part in that horrible incident kept him on his best behavior. Not until she returned home from a mission that went badly did he strike out at her, slapping the back of his hand across her mouth. Rodolphus had been downstairs when it happened to her complete mortification. No one needed to know what went on behind closed doors. Antonin rushed out of their house, no doubt to London to see his mistress, leaving Hermione alone with a sleeping son and their friend. Without asking for permission, Rodolphus healed the split in her lip and summoned one of her husband's best bottles of fire whiskey. He never said a word about what he witnessed. She was thankful for that small kindness. It was embarrassing enough knowing he'd been present.

"Have you been able to get any sleep at all?"

She wasn't surprised to hear Antonin's voice. Somehow he always seemed to know when she trouble sleeping. Maybe she shook the bed too much when she tossed and turned or maybe it was another sense he possessed. Hermione worried that they would have another tense conversation if she replied. But, in the end, her curiosity got the better of her. It usually did.

"Why do I have so many memories of you hitting me and pushing me in our home if you claim you've never hit me outside of the Dark Lord's orders?"

Antonin turned on his side and rose up on his elbow to get a better look at his wife. She was nervous to look at him, afraid of what she'd find if she did. When he didn't immediately answer, she risked it to look at him. He was staring, the same sadness and concern from earlier back on his face. It seemed he didn't even know how to respond. Feeling nervous, she continued.

"I heard you talking to Corban in the kitchen that Saturday he came over. When you told him that I was accused you of pushing me down the stairs, he got angry. Why?"

He laid back down on his back with a heavy sigh. Rubbing his hands down his face, it was evident he also didn't want to have the conversation they were having. Tough. They needed to have it. She was going mad. Shouldn't he want to help the wife he claimed to love?

"Because I didn't push you down the stairs."

"Then why do you feel guilty?"

Another sigh was his initial response. There was no denying that he felt guilt. It was written all over his face when she accused him that night they fought. She could hear his guilt in his voice when he told Corban that he wasn't exactly innocent either. What happened? She was exhausted of not understanding. Though it took every ounce of her pride, she knew she had to ask him the truth.

"Antonin, I beg you not to keep anything from me anymore. Tell me the truth. What really happened that day?"

When he threw back the covers and stood to his feet, Hermione prepared herself for a terrible row. Instead, he sighed again and gestured to the door.

"It'll be easier if I just show you. Come downstairs."

Even though she knew it was bound to be cold down in the basement, Hermione didn't bother covering up her thin nightgown with a dressing gown. The desire to uncover the truth was too strong. Her memory of that day was vivid. She could recall every single detail down to the feel of his hands on her back. Only her curiosity made her follow him down to the lowest level of their home. What could he possibly have to show her that she didn't already know?

She grew nervous as they stood next to the pensieve that she once used in her work. It was bad enough that she suspected there was something seriously wrong with her brain. Would she be able to handle learning that she was correct? And if she wasn't remembering that day as she should, what did that mean? Why was she not remembering correctly?

"If you've been wondering what memories were real and what memories weren't real, why haven't you tried to use the pensieve yet?"

His question annoyed her enough to roll her eyes before she answered. Of course, she didn't want to admit that she had used the pensieve. The less time they spent discussing Andromeda and her demise, the better.

"Because, Antonin, I don't know which memories I'm confused about. What am I supposed to do? Spend every moment I'm awake down here looking at every single memory of my life and compare it with what I thought I already knew? Hardly a good use of my time."

He couldn't argue with her reasoning. She'd considered using the pensieve to try to uncover any gaps in her memory or any potential false memories, but where would she even begin? For all she knew, every moment of her life before the one she was standing in was a false memory either warped by her damaged brain or planted in her mind by some unknown nefarious schemer. It was possible for someone to go mad if they spent too much time mulling their past in a pensieve. She was afraid to risk it.

Deciding not to push the issue any further, her husband pointed his wand at his temple. Concentrating on his recollection of that horrible day ten years earlier, he pulled silvery strings of memory out of his mind. Once they were swirling in the liquid of the pensieve, he gestured to her to take a look. Suddenly even more nervous to learn the truth, Hermione hesitated. Only after he gripped her hand in support did she dip her head into the memory.

It was easy to distinguish an altered memory from a true memory. That had been a valuable lesson she had to learn early on in her career as an interrogator. As the scene of their bedroom came into view, Hermione knew without a doubt that Antonin was showing her the truth. There was no haze clouding the scene as it had when she first watched her memory of Andromeda's murder thanks to the potions blocking her recollections. There also didn't exist the choppy breaks that a trained eye could see in a manufactured memory. Whatever she was about to witness was exactly what Antonin saw that day.

She didn't remember how the argument started in their bedroom. Likely it was something ridiculous that made very little sense when it was all over. At her first glimpse of herself in her husband's memory, Hermione felt ashamed. Even at a distance across the room she could see her eyes were glazed and her movements sluggish thanks to the potions she sipped to help her get through the stress of her days. Maybe she wasn't taking as many a day back then as she did when she killed the horrid cow, but it was still embarrassing. She screamed at Antonin like a madwoman, throwing any object within hand's reach at him as he tried to get her to calm down.

It was almost a relief when Memory-Hermione stormed out of the bedroom to the stairs. She couldn't ignore the crazed look in her eyes, the deranged look. Was this how she really acted? At the top of the stairs, she turned to yell one more time at Memory-Antonin. He was trying his hardest to get her to calm down, but she would not listen.

"Hermione, darling, please stay home. You're upset. It's not a good idea to…"

"Fuck you, Antonin. Go find your whore and leave me alone."

Knowing what was about to happen, Hermione wanted to close her eyes. She knew she couldn't. Memory-Antonin rushed to his wife, the same fear and rage in his expression that always existed when she insulted Andromeda. She had the audacity to laugh at his anger. In that moment of inattention, her foot slipped. Her husband screamed her name as she fell forward, grabbing the back of her robes in his hands. It wasn't enough of a grip to keep her from falling. The sound of fabric ripping out of his hands was almost as loud as the thump of her body hitting the stairs. Antonin screamed her name again, running down the stairs after her. She lay on the floor unmoving.

It was as terrible as she remembered it, even if the details weren't exactly the same. Antonin pulled her out of the memory. They'd seen enough. Afraid to look him in the eye, Hermione stared at the swirling in the pensieve.

"You didn't push me?"

"Of course I didn't." She heard the crack in his voice. It gave her the courage to look up to see his watery eyes. He was horrified by the very accusation. "I tried to catch you, but I failed. It's all my fault. If I'd just been a little faster you would've been okay and our daughter would be…"

His voice broke completely at the mention of the child she miscarried in the accident. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he couldn't speak. She felt her own eyes burn.

"Why do I remember you pushing me?"

He couldn't give her a definite answer. Once he was able to compose himself enough to speak again, he reminded her that it was a confusing time.

"What else do you think you remember?"

There wasn't much, but she told him what memories stood out in her mind. She came to in St. Mungo's, unsure why she was there at first. Rodolphus was sitting next to the bed waiting for her to wake up. They were close friends and frequent partners on missions during that time period. She also thought maybe Alecto was there, but she couldn't be certain. The details were hard to remember. There had been so many potions. Not just the ones she knew she unsuccessfully hid from her husband. The Healers made her drink several too. It was all so overwhelming.

"What is wrong with me, Antonin?"

He didn't have an answer. Pulling her into his arms, all of the fighting and dramatic tension that existed between them since the argument they had hours earlier dissipated.

"I don't know, my darling, but we're going to find out."